Limit.

June and July are a blur in the world of the Salty Boys.

I nearly can't see straight.

The dog leaves me in a fog of care and rehab with her torn doggie ACL and the final days of school and our life in New Jersey nears an end.  We take long strolls together down our block in the flood of the evening setting sun.  The boys run ahead as I walk our chocolate lab who is pulling ahead wanting to keep pace with the boys even with her miserable limp.  I am convinced she thinks she is a kid herself.

The street lights hum their low tone of summer as they cast a coral iradescent light above.  It mixes with the pinks, purples and lilacs of the sky above of the setting sun.

I try to cherish these slow moments as there usually aren't many in my life.

Michael and Dylan play chase ahead and they pause to explore a rolly-polly bug on the sidewalk.  I watch as they bend down and examine the creature.  I watch their shapes, crouching and thoughtful.  I wish I could keep them curious and interested forever.  The dog huffs and puffs to pull me forward faster with her ailing leg.

We say our good-byes to our friends who have become our New Jersey family.  Through the tears and the uncertainty, our family made a life here in the suburbs of the Big Apple.  We will miss our friends that we spent holidays with and hot summer days.  The friends we cried with and celebrated with and speculated our next life's steps together.

The hardest for me is saying good-bye to our friends who accepted us as, well, US.  The CF stories.  The shoulder the lean on.  The new adventures like the hurricanes (Irene AND Sandy) and the memories scattered about the New Jersey landscape meld together.

The move is stressful, but for our summer before us, it certainly wouldn't be the grand headline.

Our time wrapping in New Jersey concludes with Michael's last day of school, or as he'll point out, not really the last day of school.  We had to do some serious parent manuvering and with a negotiated LEGO set later, Michael is willing to accept that he won't be able to attend the *very last* day at his beloved school.  Our family meets Michael at the front of the precious elementary school where we say our thanks to a staff and final good-byes.  The principal who knew my son by name, says good-bye to our family.  She was a rock star principal, and as I understand it, she greeted each classroom every day of the school year.  I won't forget how she shared stories with me about Michael.  The school nurse who opened her heart to our family and understood the CF story.  She was cool and compassionate and always available.  I always knew that Michael was in good hands.  And his teacher who was thoughtful, engaging, encouraging and helped him find his voice in Kindergarten.

With many tears, we head to our home for the last two years and clear out our final belongings.  It takes some manipulating to get everything to fit in the car that the moving van has left behind.  The enormous box of meds (that, mind you, are temperature sensitive and it's summer!), the machines that are an integral part of the boys' care every day, the luggage with our essentials for the next few days, and even the recovering dog.  She stands in the empty house and cocks her head to the side with intent focus trying to understand the confusion.

Then in the final hour of the move, she decides to plant herself at the back door on the porch, partly stubborn, partly confused as to why every single thing has been removed from the house.  The dog crosses her front paws as she is laying as if to say, "Nope, I am quite comfortable.  You go ahead."  She is refusing to get in the car.  Then I realize that this member of our family has claimed this as her home.

It takes my husband to physically lift her up and guide her into the car for her to comply with the new direction our family course is going.

We say our good-byes to the place we called home for two years and slowly pull out of the driveway and head to I-80 for our trip west.  Even the boys are reflective as they say "good-bye" out loud to our home.  We depart around 3 pm, far later than we had originally planned, to make the trek back to Chicago.  We pile in the car, total lunacy and all, and we head out on our way.

Well into our 13-hour drive we realize we are exhausted.  Utterly exhausted.  From the tactical planning to the organizing to the wrapping our lives and saying the good-byes, we are completely and totally drained.  We spontaneously decide to book a hotel room and stay overnight in Cleveland.  With sleep in sight, we listen over the radio to our beloved Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup as we drive under the inky black sky and scattered flickering stars above.  We stumble into the hotel room at midnight and all collapse onto the beds.  The dog pouts on the sofa of the pet-friendly hotel room.  She already misses her familiar spots at our home in New Jersey.

The next morning we are a bit more refreshed to finish our trip.  A few quick stale bagels and bad coffees in hand for the grown-ups and the kiddos hooked up to the iPads, we shove off.  I know that I am maxed out.  My bones ache and the car steers due west, the rising sun behind us, on the road again.

That's when we spot the police car.  My husband presses the break with ease trying to disguise that we are over the limit.  Nabbed.  Too late.

My husband is baffled, "What is the speed limit here?"  I crinkle my forehead and take my thumb and forefinger to rub my eyebrows straight.  The boys begin asking a million questions about the speed limit and is daddy going to get arrested.

I continue rubbing my head as our car slows and stops in the shoulder of the road.  The officer walks up to the car and informs us that the limit is 60 and we were going 78, thinking that the speed limit was in fact 70 like most of Ohio highways.  We are stunned as we are on an interstate that is 6 lanes across and we just saw a sign for 65.  However, we mentally break and back-track to realize that we just exited from that highway and had just started driving on this highway.  The darn speed limit had changed.  We would also later find out that the speed limit on this very same highway would change days later with a new law at the end of the month up to 65 mph.

We.  just.  want.  to.  get.  home.

We accept the ticket begrudgingly and carry on.  This final trip of our lives in New Jersey back to Chicago proved to be the toughest.  In the final two hours, we dodge a tantrum because a six-year-old's non-answer to if he wants Gatorade at a pitstop and a four-year-old having to pee roadside when push comes to shove.

We arrive in Chicagoland with an aching exhaustion, a Stanley Cup under our belts, and a little wiser about the interstate speed limits in the state of Ohio.

What is shocking, is the speed in which our stuff arrives back in Chicago.  When we had moved to the East Coast, the movers took a full eight days to arrive.  We stayed in a hotel for 7 of those days with two little ones and our pooch.  Yes, SEVEN days with two tots and a dog.  This time around, we are praying for a similar journey giving us more time to ease into our house and tackle some projects while the house is completely empty and clean.

No such luck.  The moving van pulls up less than 48-hours after we arrive in Chicago.


The next week and half is a scramble to get our stuff in the four walls of our house and still get the boys CF treatments in each day.  Everywhere we drive, Michael chirps from the backseat, "Mommy, the speed limit is 45, how fast are you going?"  I sigh deeply and report to my six-year-old backseat driver that I am well under the limit.  As if the move and my newly monitored driving skills weren't enough, the summer wouldn't go quietly for our family.  Finally when some of our belongings are out of boxes and have made their way into the closets, I officially hit my own personal limit.

Right when I thought things would slow down...  Right when our days are filled with sunshine and swimming at our pool...  Right when I thought there would be a pause and time for a break...

I will never forget the minor incident that would create a major heap of trouble.

I am standing in our kitchen just a day or two after a fun Fourth of July celebration with family and friends.  It is good to be back in our hometown.  Familiar and fun and yet foreign and new things all at the same time.  We are basking in being back.

The sun is already warming the summer morning and we are moving slow.  The boys are starting their morning with breakfast at the kitchen table when I hear Dylan make an unusual sound at the table.  It is an "ack - ack - ack" ing sound.  I can't quite figure the sound out at first pass.  I look over and he is panicked with his mouth agape.  I run to him and tell him to "drink-drink-DRINK!".

I now know immediately what has happened from his look of distress on frozen on his face.  He must have been swallowing his digestive enzymes pills to eat his breakfast and most certainly he didn't wash them down with water.  From my best assessment one got lodged or stuck in his throat.  After he drinks and drinks and DRINKS, he is wide-eyed and starts to cry.  He is raging upset and I do what is counter to all my mothering instincts -- I don't console him.  I actually push him to swallow the rest of his pills so he can eat.  I don't want to make a bigger deal out of the frightening experience than needs to be.

You know when a toddler falls and hits the ground really hard for the first time, they often look to the grown-ups around before they react.  And that was my M.O.  Don't cry.  Don't panic.  Just get the rest of his pills to go down.

I know instinctively that HE MUST GET THE PILLS DOWN HIS THROAT IMMEDIATELY with a positive experience as soon as possible before time and fear takes us down a path of disaster...

But my fear is already under way...  The pills never get down his throat.

He shakes his head.  He outright refuses to take his pills.  He refuses to eat as a means to avoid taking his pills.  This awful experience in the morning and carries into the night.

No pill swallowing = no eating

The next day my husband and I begin to stress as he doesn't eat any foods unless they don't have fat...  you see, the digestive enyzmes are taken with nearly everything to help the boys digest fat and protein since their pancreases doesn't work to release these enzymes like most other people.  But they eat fruit, pretzels and other non-fat foods without the pills.  However, our salty boys needs a CRAZY amount of calories.  Fruit and pretzels won't cut it.

Our boys have taken literally handfuls of these pills since they were each 21 months old.  They were little itty-bitties slamming pills back.  It was remarkable awe-inspiring to watch.  Your brain couldn't process watching these young children swallowing handfuls of pills with such ease and skill like they did.  I remember Michael taking nine pills without blinking when he was two-years-old.

And here I stand at my kitchen counter feeling our world get yanked back.  HARD.

This smart little four-year-old goes into survival mode.  Dylan's fear overrides the THOUSANDS of times he had swallowed them in his life.  Over the subsequent days, he perpetually asks about every snack if there is fat.  He self-limits his diet to non-fat foods to avoid taking his pills.  My heart is shattered at a friend's birthday pool party when he is so hungry and he has purple rings under his eyes.  His tiny hand reaches for mine as we are all done singing "Happy Birthday".  I lean down to hear his whisper sweetly in my ear, "Mommy, do they have any fat-free cupcakes?"

Heart.  Broken.  Instantly.

Every day that passes becomes excruciating as I realize the calories he is missing in his little body.  These kids require 150-200% more calories to maintain a normal weight and grow like their peers.  This little "hiccup" of not eating and the fallout has effectively slashed his diet to NONEXISTENT.  The consequences could be considerable to his weight and his overall health.  And there is no navigating the landmines and mindgames that come with this episode.

Do we feed him a million nonfat calories that do very little to nourish his body?!  Or do we dig in and require him to take his pills, which on a larger scale is the most important message...  compliance with care in a CF household is of the utmost important.  CF is unrelenting and the last thing we want to teach this precious little boy is that he can choose to take his pills or not to.  We have raised them to understand that there is no choice.  They need to make good choices in their lives especially around how they care for their bodies.  This is an exact manifestation of this very idea.

Our care team advises we get tough with him and that he is trying to manipulate as kids do.  It's just a phase and he'll come around.  They coach us to withhold food until he takes his pills.  No negotiating and no food unless he takes at least on enzyme.  He can take it in soft food like applesauce (like they did when they were infants).  Fat or no fat, doesn't matter, he must take his pills.

Dylan's response?  Nope.  No way.  He shakes his head.

I take him to the store and we try different applesauces...  We try yogurt...  We try swallowing smaller pills...  We try Michael coaching him with taking his pills...  We try watching videos of kids (and even himself) taking pills...  We try practicing with teeny cake sprinkles, but nothing is working and he is now eating nothing...  NOTHING!  He shakes his head over and over and over.  He cries.  He is so confused as to why he just can't eat something.

But his will is ironclad.  He won't take the pills.  And I am unraveling with each passing hour.

Imagine putting a plate of food in front of your child and only letting them eat once they did something that they were terrified of doing.  Imagine your little one crying, PLEADING, for you to let him eat food and you can't allow it until he swallows a handful of pills.  That is a handful of pills that he believes will cause him to choke.  It is the WORST.  I officially had hit my limit as a mother.  It is agonizing not being able to feed your child.  It's like an invisible roadblock preventing them from eating the food they so desperately want.

For three days on a popsicle-and-Gatorade only diet and now pushing over a week of low calorie foods in his fuel tank, we are out of ideas.  I try to tow the tough love line, but it all falls apart when I arrive at the top of the stairs and I find Dylan splayed on the floor of the hallway.  He is lethargic and slow moving.  I freak out.

Typically, Dylan climbs all over the couch when he watches TV.  He never sits still.  He walks around our table at dinner.  He is a mover and a shaker.  I have never seen this little boy like this.

I go to pick him up and cradle him in my arms.  He is on FIRE with  FEVER.  I just wish in this moment that this kid would eat.  Whatever happened to the days of handing our son his pills and a plate of food?  It's a far-gone memory.  Our world has revolved around the Dylan food strike for the last seven days.  And now the world comes to a grinding halt with him being beyond sick.  I have little left in my tank too.

My husband and I rush him to the pediatrician's office.  When we walk in, they hurry us to a room and he motions that he is going to vomit.  The staff gets him a bucket.  I whimper under my breath with sadness knowing that he is throwing up his only calories for the day a la cherry popsicles and orange Gatorade.

The pediatrician takes one look at him and then us.  She is forward and plays no games.  "He is healthy.  He is fine.  He just has a virus.  He is okay."  As she examines him, he has a 103.6 fever and lies on the table in a pathetic state.

I stammer, "But, but how is he fine?  he hasn't been eating.  For over a week!"  My brain is screaming...  "Can't you see that he is NOT fine?!"

In some small way, I am reassured that she is collected even in my complete mothering meltdown.  She gives no indication of concern in her voice.  "I would tell you if you should have a reason to worry.  I am telling you not to worry."  My husband and I share the recent days with her and the different strategies around how to handle Dylan refusing to take his meds and, thus, refusing to eat.  She listens intently and then delivers her assessment.  "Kids will do things like this.  CF or no CF.  When he is ready he will swallow them and eat.  Let him eat the foods he wants in the meantime.  If the food requires that he needs enzymes, let him make the decision."

Her words have logic and reason.  But I am an irrational, under-rested mother.  Nothing at this point has logic or reason.

Dylan is miserable and lets out a groan that sounds like "go home".  My husband offers to get him ready to take him to the car.  I am left behind in the office with the doctor.  I look at her with blurry tears in my eyes and blurt out, "This is the hardest thing we have had to parent through."  She smiles and says, "This will not be the hardest thing you will ever face as parents."

REALLY?!!!  I can't make sense of her words.  She gives me the name of a good therapist scribbled on a piece of paper as I leave the office.  I am frazzled and don't know how to proceed.

The next days are a blur of phone calls to close friends, specialists and our CF care team trying to get Dylan in to see a good speech pathologist who could work with him on his phagophobia (fear of swallowing or choking).  I would do anything, ANYTHING, to help this sweet little boy.  He is exhausted, confused, and just plain hungry.  What's worse than a mother who can't feed her child?  Especially when she wants to and the child thinks that she is starving him.  He literally thinks we are not feeding him.  It is heartbreaking for us as parents.  No, wait, devastating for us as parents.

After navigating schedules and who's who, it is evident that it will be at best two full weeks of not eating before he will even get to see the specialist who can help him.   Two weeks sounds like not a big deal, but when your child isn't eating anything, it feels like an eternity.

My eyes hurt and are swollen from crying and I literally ache for him to feel better and feel like himself again.  I myself am not eating very much.  Sort of a mom thing I guess.  Your kid can't eat, so you don't eat.

My limit.  Every mom has her limit.  I have officially met mine.  I feel like I am sitting in the driver's seat facing the officer at my window with stern eyes and knowing that I can't change the circumstances.  I just need to deal with the fall out and do my best.

I hop out of bed the morning we are supposed to meet with the specialist.  Maybe I am too optimistic, but the reality is that ANYTHING is better than where we are.  The promise that we can try a new something today gives me hope.

When the time comes to meet the specialist, I am finally at peace.  She is warm, funny and embraces Dylan's gregarious personality.  She teases Dylan and laughs a lot.  She immediately builds credibility and trust with him.  He is laughing and being silly, but I observe as she "explores" foods and textures with him.  She moves swiftly and stealthy.  She is skilled and I am utterly impressed.  I am stunned the moment she gets him to swallow his pills in yogurt.  At that moment, it doesn't matter to me if I must carry yogurt around in 100 degree weather all summer and if it's the only way he'll swallow his pills and eat, it's good enough for me!  She accomplishes more in 60 minutes than we could do in 14 days.  I am humbled and profoundly thankful.  She even pokes fun at Dylan's New Jersey accent.  When I ask if she's kidding, she laughs at me, "No, I am serious."  She is after all a speech pathologist.

That night, I sleep better than I had in the previous month.  It would be a long road and two more appointments with "Miss Cathy" before he would outright swallow his pills.  And still it would take another two months before he finally was willing to do it on his own at home.  One random afternoon, I ask if he wants to try swallowing his pills as he once did.  He carefully negotiates and accepts an agreement of an hour on the iPad playing Angry Birds before he settles back into taking his medications casually again.  I laugh at the absurdity of it taking an offer of an hour of playing Angry Birds to breakthrough.

But it really wasn't about an hour of playing on the iPad, was it?

It occurs to me...  maybe somewhere along the line, he had hit his limit.  Potty training.  Leaving the only place he could call home.  Leaving his school, his friends, his bedroom, his backyard.  Maybe the prospect of a new life and losing control of everything he had known and thrown him into a tough place for a four-year-old.  He was dealing with a lot.  Pretty heavy stuff for a preschooler.  Maybe he had reached his limit.  We all have one.

Weeks later, he recounts the whole debacle to me and family that "my brain needed to relearn to take my sprinkles."  He is four years old and sometimes I feel like he has had more to deal with than so many adults do in a lifetime.  And often he says it more directly and eloquently than most adults too.

The limit.

We may not even be aware or have a good handle of our own limits.  But on this journey, in one the toughest of times of my experience of parenting, I knew I had found my own limit.  It's also these stressful life moments that lend clarity.

Along the way, under all the mountain of emotions and endless problem-solving to help Dylan, I learned a profound lesson -- there is NO LIMIT to a mother's love.

Shredded.

My life is exhausting.

Not in the soccer-mom-who-has-have-overscheduled-herself-run-all-over-the-universe kind of way.
Or the I-make-stuff-up-to-do-and-stay-busy-every-minute-of-every-day way either.

It is more like the there-is-always-something-to-be-done-and-no-time-to-do-it-all-by-any-human-being-with-a-sound-mind way.

The past week has been a non-stop path of developing a plan filled with landmines, then recalculating another plan filled with roadblocks followed by, ahh, recalcuating yet another plan.  All on the fly.

This week brings a nasty bug circling our house.  My husband is leveled for three days with this junk and it starts searching for its next victim.  I dread that I am going to get this and, worse, I fear our sweet vulnerable boys getting hit.  As it turns out, at least so far, I am the handed the sick baton.  Great.

This germ descends on me just as my husband is starting his busy season, a time when our lives consist of lonely, gray days and long dark nights of winter.  This work season is a tough time for our family.  The boys constantly ask for him because they so crave his time and attention.  It's particularly difficult for me because my best friend is buried in his work.  He leaves the house as we are starting our days and arrives home at all hours of the evening.  It's unpredictable and tiresome for everyone.  We are constantly challenged to juggle my husband's intense work schedule and the typical things that life flings at us.

The start of a week usually brings a clean house.  Well, although the house has been cleaned tip top to basement bottom, it appears as though it was never cleaned with the torrent of toys littered all over, the superheros neighboring the matchbox cars and the shiny red and yellow building blocks mixed among the wooden train pieces.  Along with a "clean" house, I also typically kick the week off scrambling to get to my pilates class while a friend watches the boys.  It's the only hour of sanity that I have in my week and I spent it torturing my abs.  In this particular week, I spend the better part of a day shoveling out of 4 inches of snow from a blustery Great Lakes storm.  And this is just the start of the week.  I am already mentally fatigued and I know that I am feeling run down since a dull, back ache and sinus congestion started days previously.  But this turns ugly.

A sinus headache to rival all sinus headaches.  Ever.  By mid-week, I start feeling it's wrath.  I begin questioning if I have had a stroke and if I need to go to an emergency room.  An intense, throbbing headache that feels like a thousand little elves in my head swinging 10 ton hammers at the interior of my skull.  These little guys will take a lunch break for a few minutes, but then get right back to work.  They have no mercy.  The pain stabs me with the strength and power of a wrecking ball at times, shooting down the back right side of my neck.  I gag down two horse pills of maximum strength decongestant and a glass of water.

An hour or so later, I realize that maybe a hot shower will rid my head of some of this congestion.  I leave my two sweet little boys playing in Dylan's room.  Dylan laying in his bed while Michael pretends to be the parent, reading a book to Dylan.  Aww, so cute.  It really strikes me as a genuine brotherly moment.  "Remember," I remind Michael, "if there is big BIG trouble, come get mommy.  I will be in the shower."

And with this last syllable still hanging in the air, I whisk away for a hot shower.  My terrible night's sleep combined with this brutal congestion leaves me barely functional.

I never have the opportunity to take long showers.  That's simply a luxury.  As I fumble with the shampoo and soap and let the scalding hot water pour over my sinuses, I think about how I am finally in a place in my life that I actually can shower.  Those who are parents with babies or small toddlers can relate.

As I turn the water off, I see Michael's blurry image through the frosted glass of the shower bounding into the bathroom.  "Mommy, we got big trouble in the office.  C'mon.  It's Dy-dy," he says.  I throw on my robe and hurry with him asking a flurry of questions concerned that Dylan is hurt.  Dylan darts out of the office as we approach.  Once I walk through the threshold of the door, I am greeted by a toppled Papasan chair whose parts have been thrown around.  But the headline act is the paper shredder has been opened and overturned.  Mounds of shredded paper are discarded all over the carpet with the tiniest pieces embedded in the carpet's nylon fibers.  I am seething mad.  I feel lousy and my kids won't even let me have the satisfaction of an uninterrupted shower.  Why should I be surprised?  My boys play together, of course, they find trouble together.

I send both boys to their rooms and defeated I start the clean up the mess.  Once I am done vacuuming, I head to Michael's room and discuss the seriousness of the offense, even if it was Dylan's fault.  Then, together we head into Dylan's room to relieve him from his time out.  Not surprisingly, we find a box of baby wipes has been torn into bits and strewn all over his room.  Does it ever end?!  I genuinely feel like I am a failure and somehow I am the only mom in America dealing with such absurdity.

Two days later, I am splayed on the floor of the bathroom as my husband walks out the door to head to work.  A brilliant combination of a likely sinus infection paired nicely with some sort of stomach ailment (either a flu or quite possibly taking those stupid horse pills on an empty stomach as the culprit) is how I find myself here.   My husband has no choice but to leave, since there is an important meeting at work.  I can tell by the sadness in his eyes that he hates to leave me this sick.  "I will try to get home after the meeting in late afternoon so I can help with the kids."  He kisses my forehead.

It is a day that there is no help.  It's simply the reality of being a mom.  Moms just aren't allowed to be sick.

I just need rest.  I cope all morning through a series of tears and black emotion.  Somehow I get the required 'mom' things done.  I feed the kids, even though I have no idea what is on the plates and am guessing it is food.  And I get through their critical CF treatments only because my hands have done it a few thousand times.  Otherwise, I barely move from the couch under a cozy throw.

Chills and then sweats.

"Mommy!"  Dylan stands staring in my face at eye level with his dark brooding eyes, as I lay on the couch.  He demands something in 2-year-old-'languagese' that I can't quite make out.  "In a minute..." I weakly respond and he waddles off.

Chills and then sweats.

Michael is yelling from the basement for help with his Wii game.  I drag my body of the couch.

My only window for hope is when Michael goes to school in the afternoon and Dylan is napping.  My ONLY hope to rest.

As time passes and I feed them the simplest lunch possible of cereal and bananas and yogurt, it is time to start getting ready to leave for school.  I get their shoes and socks on while they are eating.  Coats, hats, mittens and Michael's school bag are all laid out and ready for the "out the door blitz" filled with lots of winter fleece, puffy materials, and plenty of struggling and arguing that happens when we go anywhere in the winter.

I go outside and start the car to warm it up.  I have a rental car currently since my car is in the body shop (See December Blog "The Lottery."), and the rental car company decides to give me a hulking tank of a car that doesn't even fit in my garage, so it sits on my tundra of a driveway.  I cannot conceive of driving this monstrosity every day.  I am stuck with it.

Once Michael finishes his meal he starts to put his coat on and then stops abruptly, "I need to go potty!"  He sprints for the bathroom.  Typical.  I am willing myself to get this kid to his school.  He demands that I take off his pants entirely for his business, which means off come the shoes that I had put on already.  I digress further from actually getting these kids in the car.  Once he is finished, we race to get the heavy winter coats and hats on and lace the shoes that a Chicago winter requires.  I scoop Dylan up and Michael is on my heels as we head out the door.

When we get to the car, I pull the handle to our beast of a car.

It doesn't budge.

I pull again.

It won't open.

I frantically grab another door handle.

Yep.  Locked, too.

I didn't press the lock on the remote or inside the car.  HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?  I am locked out of my rental car with it running in my driveway.

I convince myself that this is the work of a mechanism inside the car meant to protect the car if it is running for more than, say 10 minutes, because clearly this was not my doing.  Clearly.  I feel the hot, stinging tears roll down my icy cold cheeks.  The lunatic in me starting to emerge.

I run into my house and let out a scream.  Completely responsible parenting sometimes includes mania. I still stand behind this act for reasons of insanity.  I am so drained of all energy I just don't have it in me to deal with anything else.  I snatch the phone off the cradle and punch each number in to dial the rental car company muttering under my breath.  I ask about a spare set of keys and, big surprise, of course they don't have spare sets.  Makes sense to the rational person, but I am not rational at this point.  I have lost all civility and I become verbally combative with the poor associate at the rental car company who is delicately trying to tell me that there is no such mechanism to lock an idling car as protection (although I am still not convinced) and suggesting that accidents do in fact happen.  "Ohhh, so this is my fault?!," I stammer.  Wow, I am not in good shape.  I fully explain the situation that I MUST get my kid to school and he meets me with "You probably are going to have to call Roadside Assistance and have someone come out.  And, yes, you will likely have to pay for it."  Oh snap.

I hang up sobbing as I call this 800 number to Roadside Assistance.  Michael keeps interjecting sweetly, "Mommy, did you talk to the cup-any?  Did you talk to dem?  Mommy?"  He puts his miniature hand on my leg to comfort me.

On the other end of the phone line, I get this woman with a southern drawl who is as sweet as ice cream.  I start spilling my whole story.  "I have been puking all morning...  I need my kid to go to school today...  I feel like death...  the keys are locked in the car...  no, not the kids, the KEYS are locked in the car..."

I have heard that hope is when it's truly dark enough, you can see the stars.

Betty or Susie, whatever her name is puts me on hold and comes back.  "Ma'am, there is some light on the horizon for you.  This vehicle is equipped with On Star service, so they may be able to unlock your car remotely and not have to send some one out.  Give me a minute to contact On Star and see what we can do."  The line goes silent.  My sniffles and sobs slow.  Michael watches me slowly and controlled wondering what in the world crazy Mommy will do next.

I realize how hilarious this call would sound as one of those On Star commercials.  "Yes, this is On Star."  "Hello, I have a hysterical mother on the line who insists she has to send her kid to school and locked her keys in her car.  She is verbally assaultive, so let's try and get this insane woman on her way and off my phone."

The nice representative comes back and suggests I go out and try opening the car doors.  And ta-DAA!  They open.  She also tells me that the local rental location should be able to waive the $57 fee they charge for the remote unlock service.  It is a miracle.  And I am now a believer in On Star.  I profoundly thank the lady and hang up.  Back inside the house, I throw the phone onto the kitchen counter with a bang and grab Dylan.

It is action-mode.  I scramble to get the kids in the car and we speed off to Michael's preschool.

For anyone, being sick is no day at the park, especially when there is a lot going on.  I recall the times when I was working full-time and the biggest concern when I was sick was calling in for a conference call during my ailment.  Big deal.  For most stay-at-home-moms who are under the weather, it's a whole other level of patience, endurance, and will.  It's like making dinner in a pressure cooker in a furnace...  blind.  You can't rest or take care of yourself because you are caring for your kids first.

There are the good days and the bad ones.  There are the highs and the lows.  On a good day, I am tired, possibly exhausted.  On a bad day, well, some times there are just no words.  At my sickest during these days, I would still look around and see all the things that need to be done.  My brain floats with all the stress of constantly reacting to two very smart, active boys along with household bills, medical bills, meals, medical equipment, laundry, projects, classes, playdates, etc.  And all of this doesn't stop when I am sick.  I usually dodge it and deal with it with less focus and care, but it still gnaws at me.

I realize that my couple days spent in the black hole of sickness filled with moaning, mishaps and miracles doesn't even come CLOSE to my boys' experience of falling ill and what they have to endure.  It is in this thought that I am humbled.  And I don't really care about all that stuff that just has to get done.

Instead, I choose to look up in wonderment at the stars.

9Volt Battery

So, as I sit here stuffing chocolate covered pretzels and my mother's untouchable, delectable chocolate fudge in my mouth oblivious to the crumbs on my shirt, I am nostalgic with the love and joy of the season.  I am also relieved it is over.

I swear I have been very close to ringing that fat jolly old elf's neck on many occasions recently.  Let's see, one night the heat goes out and the tally is an icy 59 degrees by 7 am before the tech can come out and fix it -- with a full house of guests.

Another episode includes our chocolate Labrador Retriever eating a whole hot dog off of our kitchen counter during dinner.  And finally since our hotel is full at capacity, no vacancy in this house, every bedtime includes a battle with our sons since they refuse to sleep in the same room.  Dylan trains for the Olympic Gymnastics Team by tumbling off the giant air mattress in his room all the while Michael reprimands him.

And in the days leading up to Christmas, Santa keeps hearing contradictory requests from Michael.  Seriously, he's had all year to drum up his wish list and he has been deliberate about wanting an orange remote controlled car.  Then in the final days he starts underscoring his wish for a blue remote controlled car, a red remote controlled car, a yellow remote controlled car!  Each day is a new color added to the rainbow of desired motorized cars.  Ugh!  Believe me, it takes some re-convincing Michael that since he has asked Santa for an *orange* remote controlled car, Santa is probably working on it even though he kept changing his mind on the color of the treasure he desired.  Blue?  Red?  "No, no," we assure Michael, "it is probably orange and if you keep changing your mind you might be disappointed."  Sigh.

Hustle bustling, emotions overflowing, delicacy creating, and Christmas spirit transpiring.

But there is also love.

We are lucky that we have family from all over, near and far, celebrating with us this year.  My family from West Virginia  make the trip to Chicago.  All the way from the Appalachian mountains whose supernatural beauty keep you intrigued from day well into the vast sky of stars at night as you gaze across their landscape.  We were also joined by my family from bright California where surfing and warm sun is life.  Our family nearby, even down the street, join us to celebrate Christmas day.  For this we are blessed.  Even in all the craziness.  I will fold up this Christmas with all its moments and tuck it away in my mental treasury.

Among the typical ongoing CF treatments for the boys and the scramble that Christmas always brings, there are moments to cherish.  The kids playing touch football in the basement with Uncles.  The first time my nephew from Los Angeles sees and plays in snow.  The smell of my family's traditional Christmas coffee cake on Christmas Eve, fragrant throughout the house.  There are so many special moments.

We have a Christmas Eve for the memory books...  filled with dancing white flakes all day from the gray Chicago sky.  I love white Christmas's and this one didn't disappoint.  Late morning on Christmas Eve, the kids and the biggest kids (the adults) go sledding across the street at the park.

The adventurers bound through the door with stories and laughter.  The kids' hands are icy and their noses and cheeks are magenta.  Hot chocolate is the request...  and I deliver warm, steaming mugs around the kitchen table.

Without a pause, we move on to cookie decorating under the warm glow of the kitchen lights.  There is creamy Betty Crocker frosting and sprinkles of every kind.  The kids design all types of cookies, from sinister snow man sugar cookie creations to pretty, decorative Christmas trees.  All in preparation of the big man's visit down that chimney that night.

Child-like giggles and booming voices plume through my house.  I watch the concentration on Michael's face as he adorns his white frosted tree sugar cookie and the sweet, delicate smile of my niece as she creatively places black stripes on her sugar cookie candy cane.  My nephew flashes his bright smile as he recalls his sledding experience and gets a little help from his dad with his cookie creations.  My mother looks on with joy, and I imagine her heart bursting with the love only a grandmother can feel with all four of her grandkids boisterously chatty around the project.

Then we decide to check the iPhone app that tracks Santa's every GPS movement through India and China.  As the evening wears on, the kids keep insisting that I check on his geolocation so there is no room for doubt that he is on his way.  I knew I shouldn't have purchased that app.  It becomes a nag.

Soon the evening winds down, the appetizers are put away, and the lights are dimmed.  It is time for little heads to hit their little pillows.  Once the kids are all tucked in their beds, the magic begins.  But even magic has its flaws.  Like the massive train set that doesn't fit any table in our house, but still  requires Santa to set it up before the kiddies awake in the morning.  Great.  Didn't see that one coming.  A train set too large to set up on anything else than my dining room table.  But the certified train engineers, Daddy and Uncle, together work diligently to crack the code and build a train set up that is worthy of a medal...  just minus a few pieces.  I glaze the final frosting on the cinnamon coffee cake and head to bed.

Christmas morning is a surprisingly even paced morning for gift opening.  No frenzy here.  Michael wakes up first, and gently and respectfully whispers, "Daddy...  Daddy!"  The loudest hissy whisper gets our attention but thankfully leaves everyone else still in slumber.  Michael's eyes are flickering with light and rapidly scan everything as he hurries down the foyer stairs.  He passes the train set that Santa has left for Dylan and heads into the family room.  There he sees presents wrapped in candy cane and peppermint paper.  His eyes grow big.  He goes through his stocking with care.  Michael meticulously lines up each prized candy cane as he removes it delicately from the magic stocking.

Next, he rips into his neatly wrapped gifts, crunching the paper and discarding it on the floor.  We watch Michael's thrill receiving his space ship and his orange remote controlled car, his requests from Santa  "Open it, open it!"  I am floored that he hasn't woken up Dylan yet or my nephew.  Then we realize as Daddy opens the car's packaging...

Santa didn't get a 9Volt battery.

Santa was told by his elves doing reconnaissance work at Toys R Us that this particular car already had a specialty battery included.  But it turns out that, nope, it doesn't take a specialty battery and, nope, a 9Volt battery is most certainly not included.  Seriously?!  Christmas morning and we don't have a 9Volt anywhere in the house.  I am calculating my options, the best-sounding one right now includes taking a battery out of our smoke detectors.  It's almost that panicked.  Then we realize if we can track down an old dumpy toy, last year's remote controlled car (yes, completely ridiculous) then we can get the newly delivered car from Santa to work.  The frenzy to find the damn battery ensues.  As Michael's whining and impatience continues, the other kids actually make their way downstairs one at a time...  receiving the gifts they wished for.  Dylan is totally disinterested in the gifts and goes the entire day without opening one gift, although Michael gladly opens all of Dylan's presents.  Instead, Dylan plays with his favorite bowling pins he has been focused on for weeks.  Standard.

AHa!  We find the 9Volt battery and load it up into the prized new toy.  And VROOM!  It scurries across my foyer floor.  Slam!  Right into the wall, nicking the buff wall paint with a charcoal streak.  Awesome.  Wouldn't be Christmas without more damage to the house.  We exchange gifts with our family and Michael adores his presents.  "Cool!" he exclaims at his new calendar from his Gigi (my mother).  He is constantly asking me about what day it is and now he can figure it out all by himself with his very own calendar.  He is unrelenting about opening it and wanting to put it together, which we continue to redirect his attention to other things since the calendar has at least a million pieces likely to meet their fate in the bottom of a garbage bag of discarded wrapping paper if we are not careful.  The calendar is the perfect project for the new year...  when he is quiet and well-mannered, not shouting, "more, more presents!" while jumping up and down.

The day continues with a visit to my husband's family, with more breakfast and gifts.  More love to go around.  We have another lovely brunch and the boys receive other treasures including new sleds, games, and even toy golf clubs from their Nonna and Papa (my husband's parents).  Other than bowling, Dylan just loves golfing.  He will find any utensil in a stick form and something resembling a ball and play 18 holes around our house on any given day.

The clubs also come with their risks.  Even though they are padded for safety, my boys find the one way to use these for injury.  Just yesterday Dylan hits Michael in the head with the one non-foam portion of the club.  Immediately a large egg swells on Michael's blonde head.  Thankfully, I am able to intervene as I see Michael drawing his club back to retaliate.  My quick reflexes get me their just in time before there is further harm to either kid.  Fantastic.  I hope that this isn't the trend.

To cap off our Christmas Day, we have an Open House to celebrate with our extended family.  My kitchen swirls with energy.  And a buffet of unimaginable tasty delights lines my counters and tables.  Sweet food.  Hot food.  Hearty food.  Finger food.  Dessert food.  You name it.  We have it.  As I look around at the feast, I can only imagine the volume of leftovers that will be crammed into my fridge when it's all said and done.  I take a swig of my Cabernet.  And I certainly do not need these calorie-packed treats for my waistline as I stare down the barrel of 2011.  But the mingling and the warmth around my house, reminds me how very lucky I am.  The adults bantering and the kids playing are the authentic reminders that this is what it's all about.

It's about the joy, the wonder, and yes, it is also about the panic, the worry,  the scrambling around for a 9Volt battery, and of course, it's about the EXCESS.

It's a lot.  A lot of food.  A lot of gifts.  A lot of stress.  A lot to handle. And day filled with a lot of family.

Family near.
Family far.
Family in heaven.
Family who can't be with you but are in your heart.
Family that are friends by definition but in your heart you know are also your family.

It's about taking that family and taking these moments into the new year to embark on unseen adventures, to create new memories and and to find more love.

As I notice and wipe the chocolate crumbs off my shirt, while gazing at the twinkling tree lights, I know it just wouldn't be Christmas without it.  All of it.